Chapter 2
Instead of going to class, I head straight to the nurse’s office.
After a couple of minutes, one of the nurses calls me into her cubicle. I tell her I feel sick and that I don’t think I can
make it through the day. She takes my temperature, which is normal, but I still must look bad, because after only a few more
questions, she lets me call home.
Mom answers on the first ring. “Claire? Is everything okay?”
“Hey. Can you come get me at school? I’m not feeling so well.”
There’s the sound of people shouting and the ding and sizzle of pots in the background. I forgot she had a job today. I should
have just taken the bus.
“I’ll be right there,” she says. “Give me ten.”
When she pulls up to the school’s cul-de-sac in her red sedan, her hair—which is similar to mine, only streaked with gray
instead of blond—is pulled back into a tight ponytail, and she’s wearing her Nina’s Catering apron over black clothes. “Aw,
you don’t look so good, do you? Hop in.” I climb into the front seat. “I can’t remember the last time you called out sick.
That was always Nicky’s thing.”
“Yeah. I’m sorry to pull you away from work.”
She waves a hand at me. “Please, don’t worry about it.”
She has NPR at a murmur in the background. I turn it up so I don’t have to talk or answer any questions for the rest of the
ride.
When we get home, Thisbe, our yellow Lab, is there at the door, whining and wagging her tail as though we’ve been away for
years. I bend down to rub her velvety ears as Mom heads for the kitchen. After a minute of loving on Thisbe, I follow her
in.
“You want some cinnamon toast? A can of ginger ale?” She opens the freezer. “No chicken soup, but I could make a run.”
“I’m good. You should get back, anyway.”
This is what Mom and I do. She politely offers me things, and I tell her not to worry about it. It was easier when Nicky lived
here. He’s our buffer, close with each of us in his own right. With him around, we could both relax. But ever since he went
to college, Mom and I are like two slightly aloof roommates.
“While we’re both here . . .” Mom lets the freezer door swing shut behind her. “There’s something I want to talk to you about.”
There’s a pile of mail on the counter, and from it she withdraws a brochure from NYU and slides it over. It’s addressed to
me.
My face warms. Who still sends paper mail? Why couldn’t they have just sent this to me as an email? “I was just looking at the NYU website. I don’t know why they’d send me something.”
“I know you’re interested in going to school in New York City, and I think we should talk about the options—”
“Don’t worry,” I cut in. “I know it’s much more expensive than going in state. My heart isn’t set on it or anything. And UConn
is great. I’d get to be with Nicky if I went there. The last time we went I liked it more than any of the schools we visited
in the city, anyway.”
“It’s okay if you didn’t,” Mom says.
“I did!”
“Fine. But you didn’t let me finish. Let’s say, hypothetically, you decide UConn isn’t your first choice. All I wanted to
say was that you have options beyond drowning in debt.”
I don’t say anything, waiting for her to go on.
“As you know, I’m committed to helping you as much as I can. But that won’t get you all the way there. Beyond that, Todd has
floated the idea that he could help you. Maybe a personal loan, or a work-it-off kind of situation. . . .”
It takes everything in me not to yell no immediately. Theoretically it’s a generous offer. I know I should consider it. But
I don’t want to spend the rest of my life indebted to Mom’s boyfriend.
“Maybe,” I say.
She nods. “So that’s one option. And I know you don’t like to talk about it, but your dad does owe you quite a bit of money.
A lot of money. If you ever do want to pursue legal action, the clock is ticking. Now that you’re eighteen, you only have a few years before you’ll lose the ability to sue.”
What is it with today? Is Mercury in retrograde? Is it Mercury that’s in charge of your past attempting to reach out and claw
you back with its long, taloned fingers, or is that some other celestial body?
“Thanks, but I’m not interested,” I tell her.
“If it’s legal fees you’re worried about,” she goes on, “Johnny has a lawyer friend who’d be willing to help us for a fraction
of her normal fee.”
I stare at her. She said it so casually, as if my past is a normal topic of conversation between them. “You told Johnny about
me?”
“No, no, not like that,” she says when she sees the look on my face. “He doesn’t know about you, or about any of the specifics.”
As much as I like Johnny, I’m still relieved that Mom isn’t out there divulging the intimate details of my life to her business
partner. “Okay, good. And that’s a nice offer, but no,” I say again. “I’d rather not go to college at all than sue Dad.”
“I just wanted to let you know it’s on the table,” Mom responds. “It’s your money. You earned it, and you’ve got the right
to try to get it back if you want to.”
“It’s gone. It’s been gone for years. What’s even the point of talking about it?”
“A judge could order your dad to set up a payment plan. Legally, he would have to at least try to—”
“Got it,” I cut in. “Suing Dad is an option. Can we stop talking about it now?”
“Sure.”
We’re both quiet. I feel bad for snapping. I briefly consider confiding in her about Luke, that he’s in town to film a movie,
as an olive branch. But Mom didn’t know Luke all that well. Or at least she didn’t know him nearly as well as Dad did. Back
in those days, our family functioned as two parallel pairs: me and Dad on set, and Mom and Nicky driving all over Southern
California for sports.
Luke and I weren’t in a good place in our friendship when we lost touch. Not that Mom would say anything. I just don’t want
to be reminded of it.
“I’m feeling kind of tired, so I’m going to lie down. Don’t let me keep you.”
“You sure?”
I nod.
“I’ll have my cell on me. If you need anything at all, just text.”
“Okay. Thanks for picking me up, Mom. Really.”
“I’ll always come for you.”
It’s nice of her to say, but it’s also a relief when I hear the front door click shut behind her.
I go to the den to lie on the couch, but I don’t turn on the TV. Thisbe follows me and throws herself dramatically at my feet,
resting her blocky head on my legs.
I pull out my phone. First, I open the browser and search for NYU admissions. Google tells me I’ve visited this page “many times.” I already know the early decision deadline is November 1 and that the decision comes back in mid-December. Then I click over to look at NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts.
Not that I want to go to Tisch, not when the performing arts were responsible for starting more than one dumpster fire in
my life. I’m not a sadist. But I do want to go to NYU. I toured Pace, Fordham at Lincoln Center, and the New School this summer, and while I liked all of them,
NYU’s campus was the one that gave me that floaty “this is magical” feeling. I spent an hour sitting in Washington Square
Park after the tour, watching the passersby and the street performers and musicians. New York City can absorb anyone—any person,
with any backstory—without blinking an eye. But the tuition for me to go to NYU is more than double what it would cost to
go to UConn, like Nicky, where it costs him zero dollars because of his athletic scholarship.
Michigan and Iowa showed interest in him, too, but he didn’t even consider either of them because they wouldn’t have been
full rides. He didn’t want to cost Mom a penny more than necessary.
After spending a few minutes on Tisch’s website, I decide to really torture myself. I guess it’s that kind of day. I go into a new tab and type in my name. Not Claire Hopper. My old name. CeCe
Lafayette.
And there I am, in all my awkward glory. I click open the photo that came up on Google Images and study it. It’s a still from House of Bricks, the show Luke and I were on together. We’re looking at each other. Or, rather, our characters are looking at each other.
Luke, of course, is adorable, with the classic boyish charm that got him the part. Me, on the other hand? Not so much.
Looking at this version of myself is like looking at a different person. In a lot of ways, I was a different person. I had a different face, for starters. Dominated by a nose that looked like it knew how to throw a mean
left hook. Then there was my skinny body, like a gangly praying mantis. The fake thick-rimmed glasses and the unflattering
haircut the producers gave me to increase the comedy of my character.
I click over to another shot, this one from our last season. I had gotten even skinnier by then. It was when multiple parts
of my life had started to crash and burn, all at the same time. Things were bad with Dad, with Luke, and especially with Brett,
the House of Bricks showrunner, who had grown to absolutely hate me over the course of the show. I was getting so anxious for the workday that
I could barely eat, and Sheila from crafty started making me morning milkshakes with two Ensures.
Sometimes it still amazes me that no one has figured it out.
Sure, in the year leading up to our move to Connecticut, I went through a huge physical transformation.
I grew out my hair, no more glasses, the nose job, braces coming off, and a three-inch growth spurt.
On top of that, I use Mom’s maiden name as my own now, but still.
Tug on a couple of well-placed threads and you’d find me pretty quickly.
But then I remember how easily the world forgets. How fast we consume, chew up, and spit out media and the people involved
in creating it and start all over again.
I stare at the photo, at this old version of myself, for a long, unblinking moment before I toss my phone on the floor and
cover my face with my hands.